So Nude, So Dead Page 3

  “You’re going to be all right, son,” Mr. Stone said. Ray saw his father’s eyes shift imperceptibly to the bar, then back to the wallet he’d placed on the table. Immediately, Ray’s eyes leaped to the mirror over the bar. Two blue-uniformed figures were reflected in that mirror.

  Ray’s mouth fell open, and he turned accusing eyes on his father.

  “I called them,” Mr. Stone said, a peculiar sadness around his mouth. “They’ll cure you, Ray.”

  Ray pushed his chair back quickly, darting a hasty glance at the figures in the mirror again.

  “Cure me? With what? The electric chair?”

  He looked again at the mirror, saw one of the cops draw his revolver. Quickly, he snatched the wallet off the table, stuffed it into his jacket, and ran to the piano standing against the back wall. Silently, he thanked his memory, thanked the fact that he’d chosen a place he knew well. Without hesitation, he pitted his shoulder against the piano, felt the muscles tighten as he heaved. The piano rolled away, revealing an exit door bolted with a huge two-by-four on metal brackets. He lifted the lumber, dropped it heavily to the floor.

  “Ray!” his father called. “Come back! They’ll help you!”

  “I don’t need their help,” Ray shouted as he threw open the door. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes for a moment, and he shielded them with his hand. He looked into the room once more, saw one of the cops raise his gun, heard the blast as the cop fired over his head into the ceiling.

  He ran out into the alley, heard the tear of another slug whipping into the door jamb. His nerves were tangled into a vibrating crisscross, and his stomach ached, and his muscles shook with blunt pain. But he ran.

  He ran like a dazed rabbit, out of the alley and onto the sidewalk. He looked rapidly to his right, his left, then sprinted toward Fifth Avenue, smashing into a woman in a mink coat, almost knocking her down, untangling himself from the leash with the poodle on its end, and then breaking into a run again.

  He ran, and the sun slanted down crazily, reflecting in the windows he passed, dancing back into his eyes with blazing intensity. He passed faces, faces, heard the hoarse shouts behind him, the sharp crack of a revolver followed immediately by another blast from a second gun.

  He reached Fifth, turned the corner rapidly, ran into the crowd, stumbling, pushing, faster, faster. His lungs burned and his eyes smarted, and he needed a shot more than anything in this great, wide, sweet world, but he kept running.

  He passed the perfume shops, the luggage stores, turned into Rockefeller Plaza, ran past the flower beds, past the diners on the pavilion, past the United Nations flags fluttering in the breeze, out into the street again. What street was it? Where was he?

  He didn’t care. He ran, dodging cars, jumping at the sudden blast of horns, knocking people aside.

  He was in the arcade under the Hotel Roosevelt, running, running, his shoes clacking against the floor of the long corridor. He pushed through the revolving doors at the end of the corridor, ran past the pay lockers and the phone booths, turned to his right and ran into a small waiting room, a part of Grand Central Station.

  He stopped running just inside the door, looked around him hastily, and then slowly walked toward a bench. He sat down, his breath coming in painful gasps. Slowly, almost afraid of what he’d see, he looked back over his shoulder toward the doors.

  He’d lost the cops.

  He released his breath in a thankful sigh, and listened to the announcements of the incoming trains.

  Chapter Three

  He sat for three anxious minutes, watching the big clock on the wall. He looked at the doors again, then turned his eyes back to the clock and painfully counted off another three minutes. Quickly, he turned to the doors again, relieved when he saw the stream of people in civilian clothes pushing their way through into the waiting room. No police. Good.

  He reached into his hip pocket and took out his father’s wallet, rapidly sliding open the zipper. His fingers groped into the bill compartment, reaching hungrily.

  One, two…

  His fingers froze. He spread the bills apart, a frown crossing his forehead. Maybe some bills were stuck together, maybe they were new bills.

  No, there were just two of them. Just two lousy singles. But he’d said he’d bring ten; he’d promised. Maybe he kept his money scattered. Maybe he was one of those people who are always prepared for holdups.

  Quickly, he unsnapped the coin compartment, dug into it with two fingers, found nothing. He thumbed through the snapshots in the wallet, sticking his fingers down into the celluloid cases. Nothing. Nothing, nothing!

  He looked up suddenly as he realized how strange his behavior must seem. He stuffed the wallet back into his pocket, holding the two crumpled bills in his hands.

  What could he do with two dollars? Two dollars would never buy a full deck, and in his condition nothing less than a full deck would set him straight. Two bucks. He cursed his father, then shook his head tiredly as he realized his father had only been trying to help him. He glanced down at the singles again, marveling at the way his hands shook.

  Maybe Louie would give him a break. Maybe if he explained it all to Louie, he’d give him a break. He grinned for the first time that day, amazed that he could find anything funny in his present position. My keeper, he thought. Louie, good old Louie. A slimy bastard, oh yes, a very slimy bastard, a louse—but he holds the key. In another time, Ray Stone would have crossed the street just to avoid the sight of Louie. But now, ah now, how the mighty hath fallen. Ray Stone, one-time piano player, all-around good mixer, and nice fellow. Now, maybe Louie would give him a break. Maybe scurvy Louie with his rotten teeth and his foul breath, maybe Louie out of the goodness of his kind heart would allow Ray Stone to shoot a deck of horse into his arm for the price of two bucks. Maybe.

  It was worth a try. He got up rapidly, walked out of the waiting room, stopped at one of the cigar stands, and changed a single. He walked past the knot of service men standing near the phone booths across from the cigar stand, and picked the booth farthest in. Rapidly, he dialed the number.

  It rang several times. He drummed his fingers against the metal of the booth, his knees jiggling nervously.

  “Yeah?”

  The voice almost surprised him. It was the familiar voice, the voice he hated, but the voice he’d come to know and need.

  “Louie?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Ray.”

  “Who?”

  “Ray Stone.”

  “Say, what’s the idea calling me here?” Louie protested. “You anxious for trouble?”

  Ray felt every nerve in his body tense as he prepared to apologize. “I’m—I’m sorry, Louie. I had to call.” Crawl, Stone, he told himself. Crawl to the man with the key.

  “All right, all right, what is it?”

  Ray glanced through the glass door of the booth, uneasily eying the people outside.

  “I need a fix.”

  Louie was silent for several seconds. “Where you calling from, Stone?”

  “A booth in Grand—”

  “Call me back from a private phone. I can’t take—”

  “Louie, just a second. I can’t get to a private phone.”

  “All right, just make it fast. There’s a meet at Lenox and one-three-five. Got that? Lenox and—”

  “I’ve only got a deuce, Louie. Can you fix me for a deuce?”

  “You know the price of a deck, Stone.”

  “Just this time, Louie. I’m—I’m in a bad way.”

  “The monkey’s scratching, eh Stone? Too bad, but business is business. I can let you have only a cap for two bucks.”

  “Look, Louie, I’ll give you the deuce and my cuff links. How’s that? How’s that, Louie?” He was crawling on his belly now, right down on the ground, his nose pressed to Louie’s feet.

  “N.G., Stone. Hock the links. I got all the jewelry I need.”

  “Louie, have a heart. The shops are closed. This is Sunday
!”

  “A cap for a deuce, Stone, and you’re getting a bargain. A deck is five, you know that.”

  “Give me a deck for the deuce, Louie. I’ll pay you tomorrow. As soon as I can get—”

  “Sure, sure, everybody’ll pay me tomorrow. Mañana never comes, Stone. A cap, take it or leave it.”

  Ray’s temper snapped then, and he was suddenly tired of kissing Louie’s backside. “Look, you little—”

  “So long, Stone.”

  “Louie—”

  There was a dull click, and Ray stared at the receiver, dazed.

  “He hung up,” Ray said aloud. “That lousy son of a bitch! He hung up!”

  Ray slammed the receiver down onto the hook, clenching his fist into a tight ball. He felt insane frustration boil up inside him, felt his reason flood from his body. He skinned back his lips, and his eyes blazed. Furiously, he smashed his fist against the side of the booth, feeling the metal bite into his knuckles. He drew the fist back quickly, and threw it at the metal again, blood spurting on his skinned knuckles. He sat breathing heavily for a few seconds, working his mouth noiselessly. Then he threw open the door and pushed his way past the people waiting to use the phone, brushing them aside with his wide shoulders. He was beginning to tremble again. And he was beginning to feel sick.

  It was going to get worse, a lot worse, a hell of a lot worse, unless he did something about it real soon. Again he wondered how he could have left himself so wide open. You’d think after all these months he’d know better, know enough to have a spare shot ready all the time, especially in the morning. He really couldn’t be blamed for this one, though. When he’d sacked in last night, he’d expected to wake up to sixteen ounces of the stuff.

  Thinking of it made it worse. He wanted to tear something, hit something, knock down somebody, anybody, anything, anything to untangle him. But he knew the only thing that would set him straight.

  All right, all right, you know, he told himself. But where are you going to get it?

  I don’t know, he moaned inwardly, the thought twisting his mind. I don’t know, and he felt the sickness at the pit of his stomach again.

  Maybe Jeannie would— No, no, she wouldn’t. But maybe. No, he couldn’t. He, couldn’t go to her again, he couldn’t. He moistened his lips. Maybe she’d forgotten about the time he— Maybe she’d— No, it wasn’t worth the trip. But he needed a shot.

  His body was covered with sweat now, his shirt sticking to his back. He gulped, felt the lump rise and fall in his throat. Maybe Jeannie would give him some money. Maybe, just maybe, just maybe one chance in a hundred million, maybe, maybe.

  He made up his mind quickly, walked up the ramp to the street and hailed a taxicab, gambling with his last dollar and ninety cents.

  * * *

  The cab ride made him sicker, and he was glad when it was over. He paid the cabbie, pocketing the remaining seventy-five cents. He looked up at the third-floor window, then rapidly climbed the front steps and opened the glass-framed door. He pushed Jeannie’s bell, nervously wetting his lips, waiting for the buzz that would open the inside door. He pressed the bell again, still waiting, his fingers moving restlessly on the knob. Disgusted, he pushed all the bells in the small entranceway, quickly opened the door as a chorus of buzzes sounded.

  He ran up the steps to the third floor, stopping outside 3B. He leaned on the buzzer, hearing it sound deep within the apartment. What time was it? Was she still sleeping? Come on. Come on!

  Inside, he heard a restless stirring. “All right,” a voice called. “Just a minute.” He released the button and waited while he heard footsteps coming toward the door. The door opened a crack and he stuck his foot into the wedge. A blue eye appeared in the crack, then widened in surprise. “Ray!”

  “Open up, Jeannie,” he said.

  He saw her shake her head, only part of her features visible in the slit of the door. “No, Ray. Please go away.”

  “I want to come in, Jeannie.”

  “You’re—you’re not welcome here, Ray. Go away. Please.”

  “I need help,” he said, keeping his foot stuck in the wedge.

  He saw her brush a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes, remembered the gesture from somewhere deep in his memory, felt a momentary pang of nostalgia. “I thought you didn’t want help anymore, Ray. I thought—”

  “I need a fix,” he said desperately.

  “You’ve come to the wrong place, Ray.”

  “I need money.” His teeth were on edge now, and he hoped she wouldn’t give him trouble. All she had to do was slip him a fin, just slip it through the crack. She didn’t have to let him in if she didn’t want to. All she had to do was slide it through that opening. That’s all he wanted.

  “I haven’t any money, Ray.”

  His face began to twitch, the muscles around his lips, the muscles near his eyes. His whole face twitched as if it would fall apart, leaving only a skull. He saw the panic in her eyes, saw her grip her lower lip between her teeth, saw the tears almost start.

  “Jeannie,” he said softly, “please let me in. We’ll sit down and talk this over. Please, Jeannie.”

  “We’ve said all there is to say, Ray. Please, please, leave me alone, please.”

  “No!” he shouted, and he heaved his shoulder against the door, slamming it into her body. He felt a faint resistance, and then a yielding as he pushed into the room. He slammed the door behind him.

  Jeannie sat on the floor, her legs folded under her, her skirt twisted. He stared down at her. He brushed his hand across his eyes, trying to forget that this was Jeannie, his Jeannie. He shook his head abstractly, wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “Jeannie—”

  She pulled her skirt over her knees, then buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders heaved as she began sobbing.

  “Jeannie—”

  “Take what you want and go,” she said. “Please. Just go. Just go— Just—”

  He dropped to his knees and put his arm around her shoulders, remembering the way it used to be. His girl, Ray Stone’s girl. Standing by the piano with the smile in her eyes and on her lips, and that look on her face that said he was her man, good or bad. He blinked his eyes. There was a burning sensation in his throat. That was long ago. How long ago? He couldn’t remember. He felt so old, old at twenty-six, a lifetime lived at twenty-six. And Jeannie was crying again. He’d made her cry again, just like before. He was always hurting people now. That’s all he was good for.

  He patted her shoulder awkwardly, then jumped to his feet. He needed money. She could cry with tears, but she didn’t know how he was crying inside. Every cell, every tissue, every nerve, every fiber, every muscle was crying inside him.

  He walked hastily to the bedroom in the familiar apartment. He found her purse on the dresser, opened it and took out two fives and a single, his fingers shaking as he pocketed the bills. How many times had he stolen in the past year? How low can you get, how dirty rotten low…

  Eleven dollars! More than enough. Enough for two decks, with some left over. Two great big decks. His lips shook and he clamped his teeth tightly together, but they still shook.

  Quickly, he walked back into the foyer. She was still on the floor, bent over now, her head cradled in her arms, her hair spilling over onto the carpet.

  “I’m sorry, Jeannie,” he said. “But—” He gulped hard. “You know—”

  She looked up. Her eyes found his, silently pleading.

  She stared at the money in his hand, begging him with her eyes to put it back. He looked down at the bills, suddenly remembered what they would buy and opened the door.

  “You’re better off this way, Jeannie,” he said. “You’re better off without me.”

  He watched her head nod and then shake, nod and shake. She kept sobbing, her shoulders trembling. He couldn’t watch anymore. He closed the door behind him and ran down the steps.

  He had the money now. He would call Louie, call the man with the key. He would tell the little bastard he ha
d the money, ram it down his throat, shove it all the way down. He had the money.

  Louie had said the meet was on 135th and Lenox. He wondered what time it would be? He’d call Louie again and find out. But this time, he wouldn’t crawl.

  He stopped by the candy store on the corner, reaching for some change in his pocket. His eye caught the newspaper on the stand. It was an extra edition, probably dumped on the stands a few moments before.

  The headline was big and black. POLICE SEEK ADDICT.

  He recognized the picture under the headline. He recognized it because it was the one he’d taken when he graduated from high school.

  He felt sick again, and he ran into the candy store.

  Chapter Four

  The candy store owner had a thin, hatchet face. He wore glasses that reflected the rays of the sun, looking like two molten pools of gold on either side of his curving nose.

  Ray looked into the glistening pools, and they shimmered and swam out of focus. He gripped the top of the marble counter, and his lips worked anxiously as he struggled for words.

  “Bro—bromo. Gimm—”

  He didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted something. He had to have something to push against the churning waves that threatened to erupt in his stomach. Ray felt the nausea spring up inside him again. He knew what he needed now. It sure as hell wasn’t a bromo.

  “Bathroom!” he blurted, his hand going up to his mouth.

  “Jesus!” the storekeeper said. He came out from behind the counter, his apron smeared with chocolate syrup. He took Ray’s arm. “Jesus!” he said again. Quickly, he started walking Ray to the back of the store. Now, with his back to the sun, the storekeeper’s glasses had turned transparent again, and Ray saw narrow brown eyes behind them. He looked into the eyes, and shame swept over his body, shame that he had to be led to the bathroom by a stranger.

  “Right in there,” the storekeeper said. He opened a door and practically shoved Ray inside. “Lift the seat,” he cautioned.

  Ray gripped the porcelain bowl and braced himself against the wave starting at the pit of his stomach. God, he was sick. Good God, he was sick. His eyes sprang water, and the tears ran down his cheeks as his body was turned inside out. The smell of waste flooded into his nostrils, mingled with the heavy odor of urine in the close room. Again the nausea swept over him and a new paroxysm seized his stomach. Again. Again.